#And I really don’t want to but shes not giving me a choice

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 3: May 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

Welcome to 8k of my waffling. Warnings: we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussion of toxic relationships in the past, also discussion of very toxic thoughts about intimacy, and discussion of past dubious consent, Max being a simp for his girl, ...I think that's it? If I missed something, let me know.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Hey, just a heads-up—it’s Mother’s Day this weekend.

Max: …Okay?

Isabelle: I always remind my brothers, or they forget. Thought I’d do the same for you.

Max: Thanks, I guess? But I ordered flowers and her favorite sweets three weeks ago.

Isabelle: …You what?

Max: Yeah. And a handwritten card.

Isabelle: THREE WEEKS AGO?

Max: Yes?

Isabelle: Do you understand how unfair this is??

Max: What do you mean?

Isabelle: You’re making every other man in my life look terrible.

Max: Maybe they should simply try harder.

Isabelle: You don’t get it. I usually have to remind them, nag them, and buy the gifts myself so they don’t show up empty-handed.

Max: Again. Not my problem.

Isabelle: You’re actually infuriating.

Max: Because I remembered a holiday in advance?

Isabelle: Because you remembered without me having to tell you!

Max: This is a weird thing to be mad about.

Isabelle: I’m not mad, I’m just—adjusting.

Max: To what?

Isabelle: To a boyfriend who actually does things without needing to be reminded?

Max: Well, get used to it.

Isabelle: I might cry.

Max: Please don’t, you’ll make me feel bad.

Isabelle: You should! For setting the bar so high I can never accept bare minimum effort again!

Max: Good. You deserve better.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Isabelle: Reminder—it’s Mother’s Day. Call Maman.

Charles: …Right.

Arthur: Oh. Yeah.

Lorenzo: Was just about to text about that.

Arthur: Did we get her a gift?

Isabelle: Her favorite flowers and the perfume she’s been wanting.

Charles: …We did?

Isabelle: Yes.

Arthur: Perfume? Again?

Lorenzo: Arthur.

Arthur: I’m just saying, it’s kind of boring.

Charles: Yeah, maybe we should’ve gotten something else?

Lorenzo: Like what?

Arthur: I don’t know. A handbag? A candle? Something a bit more exciting?

***

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments: 

@/charles_leclerc: Happy Mother’s Day to Maman! 💖

@/arthur_leclerc: Love you Maman! You’re the best 💐✨

@/lorenzo_leclerc: Happy Mother’s Day!

@/f1gossipqueen: Such a beautiful tribute, Isabelle! Happy Mother’s Day to Pascale 💐💖"

@/tifosi_in_monaco: Happy Mother’s Day! You’ve clearly been raised with so much love ❤️

@/trackside_tales: That’s the sweetest! Happy Mother’s Day to your beautiful mom ❤️

@/f1_ultimatefan: Your mom must be so proud of you! Wishing her the best Mother’s Day 💖

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Max: Hey Mom, just wanted to make sure the flowers arrived okay and that you liked them.

Sophie: Max, they are beautiful! 💐 Thank you so much for thinking of me. The flowers are stunning, and the sweets were a lovely touch, especially my favorites! The card... well, it made me tear up a bit. ❤️ You really didn’t have to.

Max: Of course I did. It’s Mother’s Day. 😊

Sophie: And I heard you bought something for Victoria too? She texted me already—said you got the exact bag she’d been eyeing for months? How did you even know that?

Max: She mentioned it once during Christmas when I was half asleep on the couch. Guess I wasn’t that asleep.

Max: She’s always there for me, so I thought I’d do something nice for her too.

Sophie: You’re becoming dangerously thoughtful. Should I be worried? 

Max: I’m evolving.

Sophie:  Speaking of evolving… How are things with your girlfriend?

Max:  She’s…

Max: Honestly? She’s kind, and steady, and smart in this quiet way that gets me every time.  She makes everything feel lighter. Even the hard parts.

Sophie: Max.

Max: What.

Sophie: That was almost romantic. Who are you and what have you done with my son?

Max: He’s still here. He’s just tired of being an emotionally constipated Dutchman.

Sophie: Well, I’m proud of you. I’m looking forward to meeting her one day. You deserve someone who makes you happy, Max. Just make sure you don’t wait too long to introduce her to me.

Max: Don’t worry, I’ll bring her home when the time’s right. But seriously, I’m just really happy with her.

Sophie: I can tell. Take care of her, Max. You’re both lucky to have each other.

Max: I will, Mom. Thanks. Love you.

Sophie: Love you too, Maxie.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: He just brought me coffee. Exactly how I like it. Without me even asking.

Emilie: …Okay?

Isabelle: He just knew.

Emilie: Isabelle, you’ve been together for over a month. Of course he knows how you take your coffee.

Isabelle: But I didn’t say anything. He just handed it to me and kissed my forehead like it was normal.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: And now he’s sitting across from me, just existing all content and relaxed, and it’s weird.

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: Why is he so nice to me? Why does he just do things for me?

Emilie: BECAUSE HE LOVES YOU.

Isabelle: …but??

Emilie: No. No buts. You deserve this. This is what a relationship is supposed to feel like.

Isabelle: I know that logically. It’s just… I’ve never had this before.

Emilie: You mean, you’ve never been with someone who actually pays attention to you and treats you like you matter without you having to remind them?

Isabelle: …Yes.

Emilie: Yeah. I figured.

Isabelle: It just feels like I should be doing more.

Emilie: You don’t have to earn love, Isabelle. It’s not conditional. You don’t have to do something for him to treat you well.

Isabelle: But I want to do something for him too.

Emilie: That’s different. Wanting to give back because you love him, not because you feel like you owe him, is different.

Isabelle: …How do I stop feeling like I owe him?

Emilie: Time. And maybe letting yourself actually believe that you’re worth all of this without needing to repay it.

Isabelle: …I’m trying.

Emilie: I know. And so does he.

Isabelle: He just put my feet in his lap and started rubbing them like it’s nothing.

Emilie: And let me guess, your brain short-circuited again?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: Good. Now shut up and let the man spoil you.

***

Max leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching as Isabelle sat on the floor of his apartment, completely lost in play with the cats. She didn’t even notice him.

Sassy was curled up in her lap, purring so loudly Max could hear it from across the room, while Jimmy was perched on the back of the couch, watching with sharp eyes as Isabelle dangled a feather toy just out of reach. She giggled when Jimmy finally pounced, batting at the toy with his paws, determined to “win.”

Max couldn’t help but smile.

There was something about watching her like this—soft, unguarded, completely comfortable—that made his chest ache in the best way. Isabelle, for all her quiet confidence and composed demeanor, had a way of melting around the cats. She whispered to them, scratched behind their ears just the way they liked, and let them nuzzle into her like they’d been hers all along.

Sassy stretched out in her lap, belly up, a clear sign of trust. Isabelle laughed, running her fingers through his fur. “You’re so spoiled,” she murmured.

“Wonder where they get that from,” Max teased.

Isabelle glanced up, startled, as if she’d forgotten he was even there. Her face warmed slightly, but she didn’t move, just kept stroking Sassy’s fur. “Not my fault they like me better,” she said, grinning.

Max huffed a laugh, pushing off the doorway and walking toward her. He crouched down beside her, reaching out to scratch behind Jimmy’s ears. “I think they just know you’re gonna spoil them rotten”

Isabelle playfully nudged him with her shoulder. “You say that like you’re not just as bad.”

Max didn’t argue—because she wasn’t wrong. He spoiled the cats, and now, without even realizing it, he was doing the same with her. Small things: the flowers he sent her, the extra blanket he made sure was always on his couch because he knew she liked to curl up with one, the way he always stocked her favorite tea.

Jimmy finally lost interest in the feather toy and instead padded over to Isabelle, rubbing his face against her arm. She smiled, scratching under his chin as he flopped dramatically onto her lap.

Max just sat there, watching.

His life had always been fast—races, flights, training, the never-ending cycle of the season. But this? Watching Isabelle on the floor of his apartment, surrounded by his cats, like she belonged there?

This was the kind of moment he wanted to hold on to.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo) 

Charles: Maman’s birthday is next week. What’s the plan?

Arthur: Same as last year?

Lorenzo: Dinner at her place?

Charles: Sounds good.

Arthur: What about a gift?

Lorenzo: Something nice.

Isabelle: I’ll figure it out.

Charles: Perfect.

***

Isabelle: Okay, everything is sorted. Dinner is handled, and I ordered her favorite cake. I also picked out a necklace for the gift.

Charles: Oh, great.

Arthur: Nice.

Charles: This was way easier than I expected.

Arthur: Yeah, that came together fast.

Lorenzo: Good teamwork.

***

Max hadn’t meant to look at her phone. It was just there, sitting on the coffee table, screen lighting up as another message from Lorenzo came in.

“Good teamwork,” it read.

Max frowned. Teamwork, his ass.

Isabelle, curled up at the other end of the couch, didn’t even react. She had a book in her lap, one of the cats purring against her side, completely unbothered.

“You planned the whole thing yourself,” Max said, still staring at her phone.

Isabelle sighed. “Max—”

“No, seriously,” he cut in, looking at her now. “You did all the work, and they don’t even realize it. They just said ‘Good teamwork’ like they did anything.”

She shrugged, turning a page. “That’s how it always is.”

Max narrowed his eyes. “And you’re just okay with that?”

“It’s easier if I do it.”

“That’s not the point.” He sat up, shifting so he was facing her properly. “They should see you, Isabelle. They should appreciate you.”

She didn’t answer. Her fingers absentmindedly scratched behind the cat’s ear.

Max exhaled sharply. “You know that’s not normal, right? They just expect you to handle everything, and you let them.”

She finally glanced up from her book. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” Max argued. “You deserve better than being the invisible one in your own family.”

She blinked at him, lips pressing together.

Max softened, reaching over to take the book from her hands and set it aside. Then he tugged her closer until she was against his chest, arms wrapped securely around her.

“I’m going to steal you away,” he murmured into her hair, “and never give you back.”

She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “That’s dramatic.”

She still curled into him, holding on just as tightly.

Max pressed a kiss to the top of her head, resting his chin there for a moment. “I mean it,” he said, voice quieter now. “You don’t have to do everything for them.”

Isabelle sighed, her fingers curling slightly against his shirt. “If I don’t, no one will.”

“That’s not your problem.”

“It is my problem.” She pulled back slightly to look at him. “Because if I don’t, things don’t get done. And then—then it’s just easier if I handle it.”

Max studied her, eyes searching hers. It wasn’t just about their mother’s birthday, and they both knew it.

“How long have you been doing this?” he asked softly.

She hesitated. “Since I was a kid,” she admitted eventually. “Lorenzo was always busy, Arthur was younger, Charles had racing… Someone had to take care of things.”

Max exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. “And no one ever thought to take care of you?”

Her expression flickered, something like surprise flashing across her face. She didn’t answer, but that was answer enough.

Max swore under his breath and pulled her back against him, wrapping his arms around her again. “That’s not how it’s supposed to be, schat.”

She didn’t say anything, just buried her face in his shoulder.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: So. That was… something.

Emilie: Oh no. What happened?

Isabelle: Max found out how my brothers treat me.

Emilie: Ohhhhhh shit.

Isabelle: Yeah.

Emilie: What did he do??

Isabelle: He got angry. Like, not just annoyed. Not his usual “ugh, Ferrari” face. Like actually angry.

Emilie: …Is it bad that I love that for you?

Isabelle: He kept pacing around, ranting about how they take me for granted, how they never prioritize me.

Isabelle: He was like, “You deserve better than being the invisible one in your own family.”

Emilie: Honestly? Valid.

Isabelle: And then he just—sighed and pulled me into a hug. And said, “That’s not how it’s supposed to be, schat.”

Emilie: Isabelle, I am going to CRY.

Emilie: You realize he’s ready to go to war for you, right?

Isabelle: For the first time in my life, I feel like someone’s actually on my side.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Gianpiero Lambiase

Max: Do you ever just want to punch someone?

GP: I work with you. Weekly.

Max: I’m being serious.

GP: …Okay, who do I need to be concerned about?

Max: Isabelle’s brothers.

GP: Charles, Arthur and Lorenzo??

Max: Yes.

GP: What did they do?

Max: More like what they don’t do. They don’t appreciate anything she does for them, and barely acknowledge her unless they need something.

GP: That can’t be right. They seem close?

Max: No. They’re close with each other. Isabelle just gets ignored.

GP: …How bad are we talking?

Max: Bad. Their group chat is a constant barrage of stuff Isabelle does for them without so much as a thanks. Every year, she reminds them about their mother’s birthday, Mother’s Day, everything. Buys the gifts for them. They wouldn’t remember otherwise.

GP: That’s… actually insane.

Max: I know.

GP: Why does she still do all this for them?

Max: Because she loves them. And they don’t even see how much they take her for granted.

GP: …Okay, I get why you want to punch someone.

Max: Thank you.

GP: So what’s the plan? Because I assume you have one.

Max: I take care of her. Since they won’t.

GP: …Yeah, I think that’s a good plan.

Max: I know it is.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: Be honest. Was I ever a bad brother to you?

Victoria: …What? Where is this coming from?

Max: Just answer the question.

Victoria: No, Max. You were annoying, but you were never bad. Why?

Max: Because I just watched Isabelle’s brothers completely forget she existed. And I needed to know if I ever did that to you.

Victoria: …What did they do?

Max: Only notice her when they need something. She reminds them of every holiday, every important date, and then buys their gifts for them so they don’t look bad.

Victoria: You’re joking.

Max: I wish.

Victoria: That’s—what the hell?

Max: Yeah.

Victoria: Oh my god.

Max: So, again. Was I ever like that with you?

Victoria: No, Max. You and I fought, but you never made me feel like I wasn’t part of the family.

Max: Okay. Good.

Victoria: But seriously—how does she put up with that?

Max: Because she loves them. And she keeps hoping they’ll notice.

Victoria: …That’s heartbreaking.

Max: I know.

Victoria: What are you going to do?

Max: The same thing I’ve been doing since we got together. Make sure she never feels like that again.

Victoria: …You really love her, don’t you?

Max: Of course I do.

Victoria: No, I mean—not just in the way you say it. But in the way you see her when no one else does.

Max: She deserves to be seen.

Victoria: Yeah. She does.

Victoria: So, what’s the plan?

Max: Plan?

Victoria: You’re Max Verstappen. You don’t just sit back and let things happen. You’re already scheming. Spill.

Max: It’s not scheming. It’s just… making sure she gets everything they don’t give her.

Victoria: Which means?

Max: I remember her birthday. I get her gifts she actually likes. I make sure she knows she’s appreciated.

Victoria: That’s the bare minimum, Max.

Max: Yeah, well, they don’t even manage that.

Victoria: True.

Max: I just want her to know she’s not invisible. Not to me.

Victoria: She does. I promise you, she does.

Max: I hope so.

***

Isabelle Leclerc had never been so deeply, shamefully down bad.

She knew it the second she opened Instagram and was met with a carousel of Max’s sweaty, post-race pictures. His fireproofs clinging to his torso, curls damp against his forehead, jaw set in that sharp, focused way that made him look unfairly good. She scrolled further—pictures of him on the podium, champagne dripping down his neck, his Red Bull suit unzipped just enough to make her brain short-circuit.

She dropped her phone onto her chest, staring at the ceiling.

"I’m doomed," she muttered.

Sassy, Max’s cat, meowed from her place curled up on Isabelle’s stomach, completely unimpressed with her crisis. Jimmy was sprawled next to her, purring away, blissfully unaware that his owner’s girlfriend was currently struggling with an epiphany she hadn’t been ready for.

Because it wasn’t just that she found Max attractive. Of course she did—she had eyes. But this was the first time she’d ever felt like this. Like she actually wanted. Like she craved more than just stolen kisses and his hands warm on her waist.

And the worst part? Max wasn’t even here to do anything about it.

She groaned, throwing an arm over her face. "This is your fault," she told the cats. "If he hadn’t given me a key to come play with you, I wouldn’t be stuck here thinking about him."

Sassy let out another meow, clearly judging her.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Where do I buy the best lingerie?

Emilie: …Excuse me???

Emilie: Are you finally planning to jump your ridiculously in love, multi-millionaire, world champion boyfriend??

Isabelle: …

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: I tried, okay?!

Emilie: What do you mean you tried??

Isabelle: I mean I tried but he wanted to take things slow!

Emilie: …You’re telling me that Max Verstappen—the man who drives at 300 km/h for fun—wanted to take things slow?!

Isabelle: YES.

Emilie: Are you sure he’s Dutch and not secretly Victorian??

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: No, because I’m actually stunned. You’re telling me you’ve been together for two months, he’s madly in love with you, bought real estate just to see you more, and still hasn’t—

Isabelle: No.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: He said he didn’t want me to think this was just about that. That he wanted to show me he was serious.

Emilie: That’s actually disgustingly romantic.

Isabelle: I know. But also, Emilie, I am going to combust.

Emilie: Oh, I am absolutely taking you shopping.

Emilie: We’re getting you the best lingerie. The kind that makes a man forget the concept of “taking things slow.”

Isabelle: I don’t want to pressure him.

Emilie: Isabelle, babe, I love you, but you could show up in a paper bag and he’d still be obsessed with you. This is just insurance.

Isabelle: Insurance??

Emilie: Yes. For when you inevitably break him.

Isabelle: …

Isabelle: That’s not how insurance works.

Emilie: It is in this scenario. Now, when are you free? We’re going shopping.

Isabelle: You’re way too excited about this.

Emilie: Because I am emotionally invested!! Do you have any idea how rare it is for a man to be this in love and still have the self-control of a monk??

Isabelle: I don’t know whether to be flattered or frustrated.

Emilie: You can be both! But mostly, you can be prepared. Because trust me, the moment he decides he’s ready, you need to be ready.

Isabelle: … I did buy silk sheets.

Emilie: YES, that’s my girl!! Now tell me, what’s Max’s favorite color on you?

Isabelle: Emerald green.

Emilie: Oh, we are going all out.

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

***

Isabelle hadn’t been this nervous in a long time.

Not during presentations, not in meetings, not even the time she accidentally spilled coffee on a potential client’s Hermès bag (it had been black, mercifully, and Max had made her laugh about it later).

But this? Standing in Max Verstappen’s bedroom, bathed in the soft golden glow of his bedside lamp, wearing lingerie she had stared at for weeks before buying? This made her heart hammer so loud she swore he could hear it.

She had planned this—carefully. She knew he was expecting her. She’d texted earlier, promised takeout and a quiet night. That part wasn’t a lie. But the bag of food now sat forgotten on the kitchen counter, and she stood in front of him wearing forest green lace and every ounce of courage she’d been hoarding since their first kiss.

Max didn’t speak.

He didn’t move.

Just stared at her, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly, like he’d forgotten how to function. And for a single, terrifying moment, she thought she’d misjudged everything.

“Say something,” she whispered, her voice far steadier than she felt, her fingers fiddling with the strap of the lingerie. “I’m starting to think this was a bad idea.”

But then—he moved.

In an instant, he crossed the room, hands warm as they settled on her waist, pulling her gently closer. His eyes met hers, and they were nothing short of reverent.

“Not a bad idea,” he said, low and rough. “A very, very good idea.”

Her breath left her in a shaky laugh, part relief, part giddy disbelief. Her hands found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like she needed something to anchor her.

“You like it?” she asked, her voice small now, almost teasing.

Max swallowed visibly, eyes roaming over her again like he still couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “Isabelle, I think my brain just stopped working.”

That earned a crooked smile from her, some of the nervousness melting into something bolder, flirtier. “That good, huh?”

Instead of answering, Max let his hands drift lower, tracing the curve of her hips, fingers skimming the sheer lace with maddening care. He looked like he was touching something precious. Something rare.

“You did this for me?” he asked, quieter this time. Like it surprised him.

She nodded, heart thudding. “Wanted to surprise you.”

He exhaled slowly, leaned in. Pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her temple. The edge of her mouth.

“You have no idea what you do to me.”

The words made something flutter and twist deep in her chest. She arched into him without meaning to, breath catching as his grip on her waist tightened just slightly.

“Then show me,” she whispered.

And the look he gave her after that? Wicked. Worshipful. Dangerous in the best possible way.

Max Verstappen had never turned down a challenge in his life. And from the way he kissed her next, Isabelle knew he wasn’t about to start now.

His mouth met hers with quiet intensity—no rush, no urgency, just the kind of kiss that made Isabelle feel like she was being memorised, piece by piece.

Max kissed her like the world had narrowed to her skin and the space between them.

And God, the way he touched her.

His hands were still firm on her waist, thumbs brushing gently along the edge of lace like he didn’t dare go further without permission, like she was something sacred—not because she was wearing lingerie, but because she was Isabelle.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, then lower, over her jaw, down the curve of her neck.

Isabelle let her eyes fall shut, a soft breath escaping her as her hands slid from his shirt to his shoulders, pulling him just a little closer.

“Still thinking this was a bad idea?” he murmured against her skin.

She let out a breathy laugh, fingers threading into the back of his hair. “No. Definitely not.”

Max pulled back slightly, just enough to look at her, his expression shifting from teasing to something quieter—like he was checking in, even without asking.

And it struck her again—how different this was from every other time she’d tried to be brave for someone. This wasn’t performance. This wasn’t her trying to prove she was enough.

With Max, she was.

“You okay?” he asked, quietly, sincerely.

She nodded, and that time, it felt real. “Yeah.”

“Good.” His hands moved to cradle her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks, his eyes never leaving hers. “Because I want to take my time with you.”

That sentence alone nearly undid her.

She didn’t respond with words—just kissed him again, deeper this time, letting herself lean into it, letting herself feel it.

It was slow. Gentle. Everything she’d dreamed of, and somehow… so much more.

Max kissed her like he had all the time in the world, like the moment mattered more than the destination. His hands slid across her skin like a question, never demanding, only asking. Always waiting. Always listening.

And Isabelle—Isabelle gave herself over to it. To him.

For a while.

Because this was different. Because Max made her feel safe. Because she wanted this.

But even as her body responded—arching into his touch, breath catching when his mouth dragged down her collarbone—something inside her began to unravel.

She didn’t notice it at first. Not really.

It started as a quiet overwhelm. The weight of his hands on her waist. The way he whispered her name like it meant something. The softness in his eyes, the care in every kiss.

He touched her like she was precious. Like she was the most important thing in the world.

And it broke her.

Because no one ever had. Not like this. Not without expectation. Not without making her feel like she had to be performative, or perfect, or grateful.

She gasped—not from pleasure, not from panic, but from the sudden ache of being held so gently.

And then the tears came.

At first, she didn’t realise she was crying. Just a strange heat behind her eyes, a tightness in her throat. She blinked hard and tried to breathe through it, tried to hold onto the moment.

But Max noticed. Of course he noticed.

His hands, which had been skimming her skin, froze. His brow creased, worry flickering across his face. “Schatje,” he murmured, voice impossibly soft. “What’s wrong?”

She shook her head quickly, pressing her lips together, embarrassed. “Nothing.”

His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, catching the tear that slipped free anyway. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”

She swallowed hard. “I just…” A shaky breath. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

Max went impossibly still. His blue eyes searched hers, something flickering behind them—understanding, frustration, something else entirely. He exhaled slowly, then pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You deserve this,” he whispered. “All of it.”

Isabelle broke.

She curled into him, burying her face in his neck as his arms tightened around her, grounding her, holding her together.

No one had ever held her like this before. No one had ever made her feel like she wasn’t just something to take from.

But Max wasn’t like anyone else.

Max didn’t rush her. He didn’t push or pry. He just held her, one hand smoothing over her back, the other tangling gently in her hair as she clung to him.

Isabelle took slow, shaky breaths, letting herself settle, letting herself believe—that this wasn’t just desire, that Max didn’t just want her for a fleeting moment, that he was here because of her, all of her.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes were still damp, but the knot in her chest had loosened. She met his gaze hesitantly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Max frowned immediately. “Why?”

She let out a breathy, almost self-conscious laugh. “Because that’s not exactly what you expect when you bring your girlfriend to bed.”

His expression softened. “Isabelle,” he said, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him. “I don’t care how long this takes. I don’t care if we stop now or in ten minutes or in ten weeks.” His thumb brushed over her cheekbone. “I just want you.”

Something deep inside her cracked open.

Isabelle had spent so long being overlooked, taken for granted, expected to give without ever receiving. But Max didn’t expect anything from her. He just wanted her—whether she gave him pieces or the whole damn thing.

She swallowed hard. “I want this,” she said, and she meant it. She really meant it.

Max searched her face, his fingers tightening slightly on her skin. Then, slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers.

This kiss was different. It wasn’t urgent, wasn’t hurried. It was deep and consuming, felt like something more.

Isabelle melted into it, into him, into the warmth of his body and the way he touched her—carefully, reverently, like she was something to cherish.

And for the first time in her life, she let herself believe she was.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: So.

Emilie: So.

Emilie: I let you run off with a bag full of very expensive and very effective lingerie, and I have received zero updates.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Emilie: I am not a patient woman.

Isabelle: I genuinely don’t know how to process last night.

Emilie: …Good or bad?

Isabelle: I think I need therapy.

Emilie: Therapy???

Isabelle: Emilie, I thought sex was supposed to be uncomfortable. I thought it was normal. To just… grit my teeth and wait for it to be over. To pretend it was fine. To pretend I liked it.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: I’m serious. I thought it was normal for it to be awkward and underwhelming, and that I just had to deal with it.

Emilie: …I suddenly have a burning need to hunt down every single one of your exes.

Isabelle: They didn’t care if I enjoyed it.

Emilie: …What do you mean?

Isabelle: I mean, it was always just about them. Their pleasure. Their satisfaction.

Isabelle: I was just a body.

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: It wasn’t just bad—it was awful. Sometimes painful. Almost always embarrassing.

Emilie: Belle.

Isabelle: I thought that was normal.

Emilie: You’re joking.

Isabelle: I used to fake it just to get it over with.

Emilie: What the actual fuck?!

Isabelle: Em…

Emilie: No, because I was expecting you to say like, oh, it was awkward. Or boring. But this?!

Isabelle: I just thought that’s how it was.

Emilie: IT’S NOT.

Isabelle: I know that now.

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: It was so different with Max.

Emilie: …Because he actually cares.

Isabelle: Yes. The first time I just…

Emilie: What happened?

Isabelle: I… broke down.

Emilie: Oh, Belle.

Isabelle: I just—panicked. Everything hit me at once.

Emilie: What did he do?

Isabelle: He stopped immediately. Held me. Told me we didn’t have to do anything, that he just wanted me to feel safe.

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: And then the next time…

Emilie: He remembered everything.

Isabelle: Every single thing I liked. What made me feel good. What made me feel wanted.

Emilie: Because he pays attention.

Isabelle: Exactly.

Emilie: That’s that racecraft in bed, huh?

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: No, but think about it! The man lives to optimize performance. He knows how to read data, analyze conditions, adjust his approach for maximum efficiency—

Isabelle: STOP.

Emilie: No, because it’s true!

Isabelle: …I mean. You’re not wrong.

Emilie: I KNEW IT.

Isabelle: I hate you.

Emilie: No, you love me. But not as much as you love Max Verstappen blowing your mind every night.

Isabelle: I’M BLOCKING YOU.

Emilie: So tell me everything.

Isabelle: I already told you enough.

Emilie: Isabelle. You literally admitted that every guy before Max made sex feel like a chore, that you had to fake it, and that it was sometimes painful. And then, suddenly, Max comes in?  You owe me details.

Isabelle: It was just… different. From the second he touched me, it was like he was paying attention to every single reaction, every little noise I made. I didn’t even have to say anything—he just knew.

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: And it wasn’t just physical. It was—I felt safe. I wasn’t just a body, I wasn’t just there to be used. He made me feel like I was the most important thing in the world to him.

Emilie: Belle.

Isabelle: I was so nervous at first. I wanted it to be good, I wanted to enjoy it, but I had all these bad experiences in my head, and I kept waiting for it to go wrong.

Emilie: But it didn’t?

Isabelle: No. Because Max—he’s so patient. Even when I got overwhelmed, he just slowed down and made sure I was okay.

Emilie: And then?

Isabelle: And then it was… mind-blowing.

Emilie: Define mind-blowing.

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: I’m serious. Because I need to understand how we went from you faking it to you losing your mind completely.

Isabelle: …Okay.

Emilie: Yes.

Isabelle: So, you know how Max is in the car, right?

Emilie: Oh my god.

Isabelle: The way he reads conditions, the way he adapts in real time, the way he knows exactly when to push?

Emilie: STOP.

Isabelle: It’s the same.

Emilie: I KNEW IT.

Isabelle: I’m serious. He’s so in tune with everything, like he’s constantly adjusting, constantly making it better.

Emilie: He’s optimizing performance.

Isabelle: YES.

Emilie: Max Verstappen. Two-time World Champion. Fastest driver on track, fastest learner in bed.

Isabelle: I am not dignifying that with a response.

Emilie: But you’re not denying it.

Isabelle: …

Emilie: BELLE.

Isabelle: I didn’t even know it could feel like that.

Emilie: Wow.

Isabelle: Like, I thought those romance novels were lying. I thought all that passion and chemistry and overwhelming pleasure was just fake.

Emilie: But then you met Max Verstappen.

Isabelle: He’s just… so good to me. And not just in bed. He takes care of me, he makes me laugh, he listens to me. He actually sees me.

Emilie: I love that. But also, I need to understand the full scope of the dominance we’re dealing with here.

Isabelle: You sound like an F1 journalist trying to analyze Red Bull’s advantage in the regs.

Emilie: I am an F1 journalist trying to analyze Max Verstappen’s advantage in the bedroom.

Isabelle: …I hate that sentence.

Emilie: Okay, but is he like methodical with it? Like does he go in with a strategy?

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: No, I need to know if he’s a precision driver or a send-it-and-hope-for-the-best kind of guy.

Isabelle: …He’s both.

Emilie: EXCUSE ME???

Isabelle: It’s like he’s calculating everything in real-time, but then when the moment’s right—he just commits. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

Emilie: So what I’m hearing is… late-braking masterclass.

Isabelle: I knew you were going to say that.

Emilie: AND I’M RIGHT.

Isabelle: He literally waits until the last possible second, and then it’s like—boom. You can’t react fast enough.

Emilie: So he takes the racing line and the perfect approach angle.

Emilie: I’m just saying, if he starts looking at data after, I’m going to scream.

Isabelle:

Isabelle: …He does kind of ask for feedback.

Emilie: STOP.

Isabelle: And then he actually remembers everything I like.

Emilie: You’re telling me Max Verstappen actively takes notes on how to ruin your life?

Isabelle: Pretty much.

Emilie: If he ever applies this level of dedication to anything else, we’re all doomed.

Isabelle: He already does. It’s called Formula 1.

Emilie: And now he’s doing it to you.

Emilie: I need a moment.

Isabelle: Take your time.

Emilie: …Actually, no, I don’t, because I need to ask the most important question.

Isabelle: Oh, no.

Emilie: How many times?

Isabelle: EMILIE.

Emilie: I NEED TO KNOW.

Isabelle: …four.

Emilie: FOUR?!?

Isabelle: I told you. Life-altering.

Emilie: Max Verstappen is out here setting lap records and you’re only telling me now??

Isabelle: Well, I wasn’t going to text you midway through.

Emilie: I AM SO HAPPY FOR YOU.

Isabelle: Thank you. So am I.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: Max Verstappen ruined you.

Isabelle: He rebuilt me.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/paddocktea: Isabelle Leclerc is my Roman Empire and here’s why: 

@/paddocktea: People know her as Charles Leclerc’s baby sister, born right in the middle between him and Arthur. 

@/paddocktea: But there is so much more to her…She’s the most overlooked yet most intriguing Leclerc sibling. She’s always there, always supporting, but somehow, she remains in the background. 

@/paddocktea: And because it’s her 24th birthday today… Here is everything you need to know about Isabelle Leclerc. 

@/paddocktea: While Arthur’s karting career was put on ice to fund Charles’ career, a lesser known fact is that the family also sold Isabelle’s childhood horse to help fund Charles’ racing. 

@/paddocktea: They SOLD HER HORSE. HER. HORSE. To help fund Charles’ career. Like, imagine being 13, losing both your sport and your horse while your brother gets to keep racing. If I were her, I’d still be holding a grudge.

@/paddocktea: …but instead apparently it’s a throwaway line in the family lore that Charles has only ever mentioned once in an interview, while he has mentioned Arthur’s “sacrifice” multiple times. 

@/paddocktea: Still, instead of causing drama, she put her head down and worked. She studied architecture while also being there for every major moment of her brothers’ careers. It wasn’t just about showing up to races—she was always supporting them.

@/paddocktea: The few times she does give interviews? It’s never about her. She just hypes up her brothers. Every single time. No complaints, no bitterness—just, "They work so hard, I’m really proud of them.” If I sacrificed as much as she did, I’d be insufferable, but she’s just so sweet and adores her brothers more than anything else. 

@/paddocktea: Anyway, Isabelle Leclerc is the backbone of the Leclerc family, and I need people to start appreciating her.

↳@/paddockinsider: WAIT. They SOLD her horse to fund Charles’ career?! I did NOT know this. That’s actually insane.

↳@/formulatea: They really said ‘sorry girl, no more childhood joy for you, we gotta get Charles to F1’ 😭

↳@hoofbeatsandcheckeredflags: As a horse girl, I would NEVER forgive them. I would be bringing this up at every family dinner.

↳ @f1drama: No bc imagine your parents sitting you down like ‘hey, your brother needs to go fast so we’re getting rid of your best friend, hope you understand xx’

↳@f1archivist: How did this never make it into Drive to Survive?? Like hello, Netflix, this is PEAK drama.

↳@girlmathf1: They stole her childhood and she still shows up at races supporting them. Isabelle Leclerc is a better person than me fr.

↳@gossipinthepaddock: So you’re telling me Charles got a career and Arthur got a second chance at racing, while Isabelle got… character development???

***

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments: 

@/charles_leclerc: Happy 24th! 🎂

@/f1fashionista93: Happy birthday, Isabelle! You deserve all the happiness in the world. 💐✨

@/emilie_abadie: Happy birthday to my favorite human! You deserve the best year ahead—can’t wait to see what it has in store for you 💖"

@/leclercsquad_: Happy birthday, Isabelle! I can’t wait to see all the amazing things you do this year! 🎉💐

***

Her phone had buzzed all morning with Leclerc family group chat notifications—heart emojis from Arthur, a single “Joyeux anniversaire x” from Charles, Lorenzo asking if she’d gotten the spa voucher he emailed (“it expires in two months, so use it soon!”), and her mother’s text: “Hope you like the book. And the suit!”

The book was titled “How to Be More Assertive: Owning Your Voice in a Loud World.

The suit was black. Structured. Corporate.

Isabelle had never worn a pantsuit in her life. She barely wore pants, unless she was on a horse or doing pilates.

Arthur’s gift had arrived wrapped in glossy blue paper—inside was a heavy coffee table book about the history of golf. 

Charles had sent an Amazon gift card.

She had smiled. Said thank you in the chat. Told herself they were trying. That they were busy. That this was just how birthdays went for her in her family—slightly impersonal, vaguely thoughtful, and always… a little off.

And it wasn’t like she needed more. Emilie had taken her out the evening before, dinner just the two of them, which had been lovely… and which had ended with a single chocolate cupcake with a lit candle that she had blown out with a huge grin on her face. The two of them had giggled like teenagers and ended up sharing it. 

Emilie had given her a whole basket full of things, like she was always prone to be doing. It was stuffed full with Isabelle’s favourite things, from her favourite bar of chocolate, to her favourite soap, a new bottle of signature perfume (always Miss Dior), new workout clothing, because she had mentioned in an offhand way that the zipper on her favourite jacket kept opening up… filled with the kind of thoughtful little things that Emilie Abadie hoarded like the french dragon with expensive perfume and perfect eyeliner that she was. 

Really, that basket more than made up for anything her family did. 

And now, here she was sitting on the sofa a at Max’s place that evening, sipping her favourite wine in her favourite sweater, legs tucked under her.

She was happy. Completely and utterly content. 

Max came in from the kitchen, a little grin tugging at his lips, something behind his back.

“Okay,” he said, “I know you said you didn’t want anything fancy…”

She narrowed her eyes. “Max.”

“But,” he continued, stepping closer, “you’re turning twenty-four, and that feels like it should come with something a little special.”

He pulled a small velvet box from behind his back.

Isabelle blinked. “Max—”

“Just open it,” he said, sitting beside her. 

She opened the box slowly—and froze.

Inside was a bracelet.

Diamonds and Emeralds connected with delicate gold fixing. The emeralds were a deep, deep green. 

The exact shade of green that lit her eyes when she was excited, or furious, or pretending not to cry during animal rescue commercials.

She didn’t speak.

Max leaned in, his voice softer now. “Emeralds. Because it’s your birthstone. And because every time I see your eyes in the sun, I think—how does that color even exist?”

Her breath caught. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did,” he said. “You’re the easiest person in the world to pay attention to, Belle.”

She bit her lip, suddenly blinking too fast. “It’s beautiful.”

He unclasped it, slid it gently onto her wrist, then lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

“You deserve beautiful things. Not because it’s your birthday. Just because you’re you.”

Isabelle didn’t mean to tear up. She really didn’t.

But here was Max—watching her with that look like she mattered—giving her something not just expensive, but personal. Thoughtful. Kind.

She laughed through the tears, wiping at her face. “Sorry. I’m being ridiculous.”

“You’re not,” he said, pulling her into his chest. “You’re just not used to being seen properly. But I see you.”

“I love it,” she whispered. “It’s perfect.”

And she meant it.

Because it wasn’t about the bracelet.

It was the way he saw her.

The way he always did.

Not as the sister. Not as the quiet one.

Not as someone who needed a personality makeover or to be more “assertive.”

Just as Isabelle.

And for once—just once—that was more than enough.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max got me a bracelet.

Emilie: Of course he did.

Isabelle: Emilie. It’s emerald.

Isabelle: He said it’s my birthstone and that it matches my eyes.

Emilie: Isabelle, I need you to breathe.

Isabelle: I AM TRYING.

Emilie: This man is not just spoiling you; he is actively ruining you for anyone else.

Isabelle: Right???

Emilie: Send a picture. Now.

Isabelle: Attachment: photo.jpg

Emilie: Holy. Shit.

Emilie: That is not just a bracelet. That is a statement.

Isabelle: What statement?

Emilie: “You are mine, and I will give you the world.”

Isabelle: …

Emilie: You’re staring at it right now, aren’t you?

Isabelle: I haven’t taken my eyes off it since he clasped it onto my wrist.

Emilie: Isabelle.

Isabelle: Emilie.

Emilie: How are you still alive?

Isabelle: Unclear. Might be running purely on shock at this point.

Emilie: I warned you. I told you he was in deep.

Isabelle: I didn’t think this deep.

Emilie: Oh, honey. He is drowning.

Isabelle: What am I supposed to do with this??

Emilie: Love him back. That’s literally all he wants.

Isabelle: …I already do.

***

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Max: I thought you were joking.

Emilie: Oh, Max. I wish I was.

Max: Arthur really got her a coffee table book about golf.

Emilie: She doesn’t even like golf.

Max: EXACTLY.

Emilie: I’m convinced he just panic-bought it at the airport.

Max: And Charles… a generic Amazon gift card.

Emilie: Isabelle literally used last year’s gift card to buy presents for other people because she didn’t even want anything from Amazon.

Max: I actually feel secondhand embarrassment.

Emilie: Welcome to my world.

Max: Lorenzo got her a Spa Voucher with only 2 months left on it. I am pretty sure that was a gift he once got. 

Emilie: That’s still better than the self help book her mother bought her “How to be more assertive”. (I mean I guess she tried, she did buy her that new pantsuit…just that Isabelle has never worn a pantsuit in her life. She never wears pants, AT ALL, unless she works out or is at the stables.) 

Max: I— No. I need to sit down.

Emilie: Oh, don’t worry, Max. She’s used to it. That’s what makes it worse.

Max: That’s actually depressing.

Emilie: Right?? I feel like I’m the only one who actually pays attention.

Max: I feel like I need to apologize on their behalf.

Emilie: Oh, you’ve already done enough. You got her a bracelet with emeralds to match her eyes.

Max: That’s just normal? It’s not hard?

Emilie: Max, you put more thought into one gift than her family has in a decade.

Max: Good. She deserves better.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: So… still in love?

Max: More every day.

Victoria: You’re such a sap.

Max: You asked.

Victoria: I did. Because I knew you’d say something like that.

Max: And yet, here you are, pretending to be surprised.

Victoria: Not surprised, just entertained.

Max: Glad my happiness is amusing to you.

Victoria: Oh, it is. You’re actually just gone.

Max: I know.

Victoria: And you’re fine with that?

Max: More than fine. Best thing that’s ever happened to me.

Victoria: …Wow.

Max: What?

Victoria: Nothing. Just… I’ve never seen you like this.

Max: Me neither. But I don’t want it to stop.

Victoria: Then don’t.

Max: I won’t.

Victoria: Good.

Max: …You’re being suspiciously nice.

Victoria: I can be supportive, you know.

Max: Yeah, but usually there’s teasing first.

Victoria: True. But I don’t think I need to say anything. You’re already completely and utterly done for.

Max: Not wrong.

Victoria: So, when do I get to hear about the inevitable dumb thing you’ll do to impress her?

Max: What makes you think I’ll do something dumb?

Victoria: Max. You bought an entire penthouse just to work with her.

Max: …That’s not dumb. That’s practical.

Victoria: Sure, sure. Practical.

Max: It is! I needed a new place anyway. And I have great taste.

Victoria: She has great taste. You just followed her lead.

Max: …Still counts.

Victoria: Sooo, can I follow your mysterious girlfriend on Instagram yet, or is she still top secret?

Max: …

Victoria: Max. It’s been two months.

Max: And?

Victoria: And I want to know who she is! Give me something. A name? A clue? Anything?

Max: Isabelle.

Victoria: Isabelle what?

Max: …Leclerc.

Victoria:

Victoria:

Victoria: HOLD ON.

Victoria: As in Leclerc-Leclerc?? Like, Charles Leclerc???

Max: Yes.

Victoria: AS IN HIS QUIET LITTLE SISTER FROM KARTING???

Max: Yeah.

Victoria: OH MY GOD.

Victoria: I remember her! She was always at the races! Super quiet, always watching. 

Max: That’s her.

Victoria: AWWWW. MAX.

Max: What?

Victoria: She’s perfect for you! She was always so sweet!

Max: …Thanks?

Victoria: Does Charles know??

Max: No.

Victoria: Max.

Max: Isabelle wants to keep it private.

Victoria: But why??

Max: Her family… it’s complicated.

Victoria: What do you mean? The Leclercs are like, the most wholesome F1 family ever.

Max: Her brothers are close with each other. She just…exists in their periphery and is forgotten 90% of the time. 

Victoria: Max, that’s awful.

Max: I know.

Victoria: And they still don’t know you’re together?

Max: Nope.

Victoria: You haven’t told Charles??

Max: Isabelle doesn’t want them to know.

Victoria: I mean, I get it, but… that’s really sad.

Max: Yeah.

Victoria: But you make her happy?

Max: I try.

Victoria: Good.

Victoria: But just so you know, when this does come out, Charles might actually explode.

Max: I know.

[realmsofdreams]

what will become of us now?

pairing: jacaerys velaryon x fem!reader

summary: you, y/n raventhorne of house raventhorne, have spent your life tied to jacaerys velaryon. first as his childhood companion, then as his wife through a political marriage. though your bond once held promise, it’s now a shadow of what it could have been. jacaerys’ heart has always belonged to baela targaryen, his intended bride, until she refused him. you stepped into her place, a willing substitute, but never his true choice.

warnings: angst, emotional distress, themes of unrequited love, political marriage, heartbreak.

author note: my first ‘hotd’ fanfic! hope you like it. any questions or requests are very much appreciated! i’m not sure if i’ll write a part 2 yet, but if you really want one, just let me know. xx

“you’ve been staring at that fire as though it holds answers i cannot give,” jacaerys says.

his voice cutting through the quiet of the chamber. the stone walls of dragonstone loom around you, the salt-heavy air seeping in from the sea. he stands near the door, his dark curls tousled, the faint clink of his sword sheath brushing his thigh a sound you know too well.

you don’t turn from the hearth, your hands clasped tightly in the folds of your black velvet gown. the silver raven sigil of house raventhorne glints at your breast, a cold reminder of your name, your duty.

“perhaps it does,”

you reply, your tone clipped, honed by years of swallowing words you longed to speak.

“the flames do not lie, jace. they burn what’s false and leave only… the truth.”

he steps closer, his boots scuffing the stone floor.

“and what truth do you see there, y/n? that i’ve wronged you somehow? that i’ve failed you?”

you laugh, a bitter sound that surprises even you, and finally face him. his brown eyes meet yours, steady, guarded, achingly familiar.

“failed me? no, my lord. you’ve honored our vows, kept me fed and cloaked and housed. a fine husband, by the measure of duty. but we both know where your heart lies.”

his jaw tightens, a flicker of guilt shadowing his face.

“baela has naught to do with this.”

“baela has everything to do with this,”

you counter, stepping toward him, your skirts whispering against the cold floor.

“do not stand there and weave half-truths. i’ve borne them long enough. every choice you make carries her name, and when she refuses, i am the one who steps into the void. i am your wife, jacaerys, bound by blood and oath, and yet i am ever the shadow of what you wanted.”

“she made her choice,” he says, voice low, almost pleading. “she refused me. you know this.”

“and yet she lingers,” you press, the words spilling out like a wound breaking open.

“in your silences, in the way you pause before you touch me. i see it, jace every time you ride to war, whose favor do you seek? when you return, blood-stained and weary, whose name do you murmur in the dark? i’ve stood by you, carried the weight of this alliance, of our houses, of a crown you might one day claim. and still, i am second.”

he flinches, running a hand through his hair, a gesture you once found endearing, now a dagger to your chest.

“you think i don’t care for you? we were friends, y/n… more than that, once. i’ve tried—”

“tried?” you cut him off, your voice trembling despite yourself.

“i do not want your efforts, jacaerys. i want your heart. i want to be seen not as the one who took baela’s place, but as me. y/n raventhorne. your wife. not the consolation you settled for.”

he steps forward then, closing the gap, his hand hovering near your arm.

“you speak as though i’ve cast you aside. i’ve honored our marriage, our duty—”

“duty,” you spit, stepping back from his reach.

“i am no child to be placated with talk of duty. i’ve played my part, smiled at feasts, held my tongue when you lingered too long at her side, endured the court’s whispers. but i am flesh and blood, jace, not stone. i feel every wound you deal me, every moment you choose her over me.”

his hand falls, his shoulders slumping as though your words have struck true.

“what would you have me do?”

he asks, raw and unguarded. “i cannot unmake the past. baela was my first betrothed, yes, but you… you are my wife. my future.”

“and yet you do not love me,”

you whisper, the truth slipping free, sharp and final. it hangs between you, heavy as a storm cloud. his silence answers, and your chest tightens, tears prickling at your eyes.

“y/n…” he begins, but you shake your head, cutting him off.

“do not offer me pity,” you say, voice breaking.

“i’ve had my fill of it.” you turn toward the window, the sea a restless blur of black and silver beyond the glass.

“i thought i could bear it, being second in your heart. i thought time might shift the balance. but i am weary, jace. weary of chasing a shadow i’ll never outrun.”

he’s quiet, the crackle of the fire and the distant roar of waves filling the void. when he speaks again, his voice is soft, threaded with something you can’t name.

“if you wish to be free of this, if you wish to return to the vale, to your house… i would not stop you.”

your breath catches, a fresh pain blooming within you. freedom. he offers it like a mercy, but it cuts like a blade. to leave would be to surrender, to abandon the years you’ve given him. to stay would be to break beneath the weight of his indifference.

you face him, eyes blazing through unshed tears.

“and what then, jacaerys? you’d summon baela the moment my ship sails? or find another to fill my place, as i filled hers?”

he doesn’t answer, and that silence carves a deeper wound than words ever could. you step toward the door, your voice steady despite the storm within.

“i’ll not decide this night. but know this, my lord husband, i am done being the one you settle for.”

you brush past him, the scent of leather and steel clinging to him as you go, and you don’t look back. the hall stretches dark and endless before you, and as you vanish into its depths, one question burns in your mind.

what will become of us now?

[thesparkledash]

You’re so real for the last reblog. While I do think that Burning Spice just being bored is also pretty cool I can’t deny that Devsis kind of fucked up in giving him some nuance unlike all the other beasts. All we really get is him screaming “how much longer do I have to endure this” because he can’t stand the constant boredom of seeing the same thing happen over and over.

I always think what would happen if Burning Spice Cookie really did destroy everything, how would he look at himself and the world. I see him in despair over the fact that now there really is nothing left to do, nothing left for him to change, and the very tide he tried to steer for himself has run dry. Nothing left for him but a burning world of his own actions and at first he’s happy that something has finally changed, he’s made an impact on history in the way he wanted. But now there’s nothing left, nothing but him. All he can do now is scream in the agony of knowing that he’ll be there in an unchanging world for the rest of his days until he makes the ultimate change in taking himself out, but what would that accomplish? Leaving an unchanging world in his wake? He couldn’t do that to himself, it’s too painful. But to try and fix it, to give Abundance to the world once again is just a painful reminder of how he used to be and he couldn’t do that either. Either scenario is awful. So he’s left wandering the world forced to see it never change and never see a cookie, a kingdom, a civilization be born, grow or wither ever again.

Sorry that got kind of crazy skjakjsjan

Ngl my only issue with the “he wasn’t just bored” argument is that it always feels like it’s justifying what he (and honestly the other beasts) are doing. I’m all for “the witches fucking sucked and were horrible with the beasts”, but i feel like it’s always ignoring that the beasts were the ones to make the choice to fall and turn to the dark side. Nobody forced Burning Spice to turn into a genocidal maniac and nobody forced Shadow Milk to start telling lies and creating chaos. The Beasts had their reasons for doing those things but those reasons aren’t excuses and I don’t like how some people (not here, mostly on reddit) act like the beasts having tragic backstories gives them full permission to commit horrible crimes. It doesn’t. If anything it’s an argument about how the Beasts were possibly always unworthy of the soul jam because their counterparts, the ancient heroes, went through similar horrific events and didn’t become super mega evil. Even though GC pretends otherwise, the heroes want the betterment for all cookies. The beasts do not.

This is really long I’m sorry 💀 I just never liked the “oh they’ve got baggage therefore their war crimes are okay” thing in fandom.

Oh, I completely agree that they could've given Burning Spice more depth. Or at least, made it a bit more clear, again considering how many people thinks he was "just bored"

And for me personally, I don't think them having tragic backstories is an excuse. But it does show us that their not pure evil or anything and that perhaps there is a small possibility that they could be redeemed? Especially with Mystic Flour, even if the stuff she did was obviously horrible and inexcusable, it was still mostly rooted in a desire to end everyone's suffering, so I don't think she's a lost cause or anything

As for "the ancients went through similar horrific events and didn’t become super mega evil". No, they didn't, but let's be real here, that was also partly because they have close friends who look out for them. If Pure Vanilla didn't send that letter to Dark Cacao he would problably still be isolating himself in the citadel and ignoring all the problems outside of it. Pure vanilla admitted himself that if his friends weren't there then he would've actually become a cookie of deceit in the yoghurt river. And sure Golden Cheese didn't turn evil after losing her kingdom, but imagine if that happened like 10 more times. Would she still be okay then?

[ilguna]

☼ say it like you mean it (Finnick Odair) ☼

summary; over time, you’ve learned his techniques, and you’re really not entertained by it. if he likes you as much as he says he does, then why does he just say so?

warnings; swearing,

wc; 3.2k

--

The summer heat has finally decided to catch up with District Four it seems, and it only took until mid-August for it to do so. It’s not gentle by any means, either. All you’re doing is getting ready for the day, and it feels as if you live in a tin can smack-dab in the middle of the desert. 

This house is small enough as it is, the last thing you need to be baked alive in it. You think your mother is on the same train of thought that you are, because she’s opened every single window in hopes that a breeze will roll through. 

You find her in the kitchen, fanning herself with a thin book, boiling a pot of water on the stove to loosen up the metal for the hooks that are laid out across the dining room table. You would just use a torch to make the hooks easier to bend, but you weren’t cleared for a permit since the house is flammable, and it’s in a fairly nice neighborhood.

So, you have no choice but to use water, even though it’s more time consuming. Between you and your mother making hooks, it’s getting harder and harder to make the Peacekeeper’s deadlines on time. It would be just a little bit easier if you had one more person to help, but then you’d be given a bigger workload.

“How long are you planning on being out for today, honey?” Your mother asks, pausing her fanning long enough to look your way.

“It shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours.” You tell her, gathering the bags of hooks to place into your tote bag. “Just a few errands to run and I’ll collect what I need for my hooks along the way. Once I drop them off at the docks, I’ll come straight back.”

She nods, “PLease be careful when you speak to the Peacekeepers, you can’t afford another warning.”

“I will be.” You say, turning your back to her. 

You pull the tote bag onto your shoulder, rolling your eyes. It’s not your fault the Peacekeeper’s are a bunch of sensitive wimps—none of them can take a joke. All you did last week was tell them that you may or may not see them the following day to make the drop.

This resulted in several Peacekeepers being sent to your door in the morning to escort you straight to the docks to deliver your hooks. When you tried to tell them that you weren’t being serious, you were met with a citation, but really it was just a warning. If you get another one, then you’ll be taken into custody until they think you’ve learned your lesson.

Talk about ridiculous, right?

“Love you, mom.” You murmur, opening the front door, hand reaching to push the screen door out of the way before you even see it.

“I’ll see you soon, honey.” She says back, her footsteps fading away.

Your hand comes into contact with cloth, hand squishing into whatever it is. You yank your hand back, as if you’ve just touched the hot stove, eyes peering around the door. 

As soon as you see who it is, your shoulders drop, worry leaving you in an instant. Your face twists at the sight of Finnick, leaned up against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk on his face. You begin to dread what the rest of your day is going to look like, if he’s here already.

Usually he has enough courtesy to give you a headstart before ruining your afternoon.

“Please, not this today.” You groan, pushing past him to get out of your house. You pull the front door shut with a slam, heading down the steps without waiting for him to say anything.

“Good afternoon.” He muses, following behind you. He must not shut the screen door, because you can hear it squeal as it swings back into place. “You don’t want me here?”

“I wouldn’t mind as much as I do if you weren’t so annoying. How long were you waiting out there for?” You ask him.

“Long enough to hear your mom ask you to be careful.” He says, taking long strides to catch up with your pace. “Which she won’t have to worry about, because I don’t plan on leaving your side today.”

“Of course you don’t.” You sigh, adjusting the bag on your shoulder.

He ignores your comment. “So, what’s on the agenda today?”

“I’ve spent all week trading for fishing lure while you were in the Capitol, so I’m picking it all up today.” You tell him.

“What’d you trade them with?” He asks. “If you’d waited for me—”

“I don’t need you to negotiate for me, Finnick.” You shake your head. “I’ve been doing this since we were in school, I know how to get what I want without being scammed. Besides, I didn’t have time to wait for you, the Peacekeepers wanted the new hooks as soon as possible, and you weren’t here when the request came in.”

“How long ago?”

‘A week and a half ago.” You reach into your bag, pace slowing to go up to the first house. 

“You still didn’t answer my question on what you traded them for.” Finnick comes to a stop, back to the door so you have to look at him.

“We paid for some of them, and on some of the others I offered specialty hooks.” You tell him, going up to the house. 

The man that lives here answers the door after the first round of knocks, a smile on his face. You hold a polite conversation with him, while you unravel the cloth that covers the hook you made. He wanted it purely for decoration, since he’s been long-retired from being on the boats. He gave you the rest of his lure for free, no strings attached.

“Have a good afternoon.” You tell him, waving before you go back down to Finnick.

“How much did you pay?”

You really hate it when he gets on a roll with the questions. You’re not sure why it matters how much you paid for the lure, in the end you’ll be making a bigger profit with the Peacekeepers. And people don’t really have a need for lure when the Capitol provides good hooks for them in the first place. They just want something for them so they’re able to afford an extra meal.

“Not much.”

“You’re making more than what you paid, right?”

You stop walking, turning to Finnick. “Do you really take me for an idiot?”

He stares at you. “No.”

“Then why are you asking me questions like that?” You tilt your head. 

“Because I don’t want them to take advantage of you, (Y/n). You do a lot for the docks, whether these people know that or not.”

“I’m aware of that. And I don’t care if they appreciate my work. I’m just doing what I have to in order to survive. It’s not a huge deal.” You tell him, starting to walk again. “I’d rather prick my fingers a hundred times with the barb than have to deal with the boats.”

“You wouldn’t have to deal with either if you let me take care of you.”

Your face scrunches up at the thought. Once for the fact that he just said that to you, and twice for the idea of being supported on his Capitol money, which you despise. He earned his dollar of his money by beating the Hunger Games at such a young age, you’ll admit that.

But you’ll never come to terms with the person the Capitol has turned him into. 

The old Finnick—the one you grew up with before he got reaped—would never have said half of the things he does to you. His flirtatious comments are constant, they’re everyday, and they’re borderlining disrespectful. You’re not sure how many times you’ve told him to quiet it, and he never listens.

He’s not laying it on as thick today, but that might have something to do with what you said to him before he got on the train in July. You’d met him at the station after the reaping to wish him luck, because he’s still your friend, and he made a joke about taking you to the Capitol with him and showing you what luxury is.

You felt disgusted at the suggestion, because he should know that you’d rather be at the bottom of the ocean than in the Capitol. You backed away from him, and with a shake of your head, you told him that you’d never go there, much less with him. You left the train station after that, not bothering to give him the goodbye you usually do.

You hate the fact that he’s required to mentor the tributes. You think it’s a good idea, because Finnick broke the record for the youngest victor, but the person it turns him into… it’s just gross. He used to be friendly, funny and courteous, and a couple of years ago he changed. 

There were no signs, one year he went to the Capitol to mentor, and a month later he came out this insufferable Capitol brat. It only got worse when he mentored Annie Cresta, causing her to win the Games two years ago. Ever since, he’s been cocky, as if the world owes it to him.

You’re sick of dealing with it. Especially when it lasts for months, and by the time he seems to be getting better about his attitude, it’s Hunger Games season again. The cycle is never-ending.

“That’s nice, Finnick.” You mutter, pace quickening, as if you’ll be able to leave him behind.

“What?” He asks, as if he’s clueless. “It’s true. If you were with me, you’d never have to worry about half the things you do.” He begins to catch up with you. “There’d be dinner on the table every night, you’d have access to hot water in the winter, you’d be able to buy anything you want. You could’ve woken up in an air conditioned house today.”

“While that all sounds nice, I don’t want a life like that.” You tell him, eyes on the ground.

“Why not? Everyone wants a life like that.” He throws his arms out, you can tell by his shadow. “And I want to give it to you.”

“Because that means nothing to me.”

“Nothing?” Finnick asks. “So you’re telling me you don’t like the necklaces and jewels and—”

“Finnick!” You shout, irritated. You stop to look him dead in the eye. “What you’re doing isn’t working on me. I will never fall for the facade you put on for the Capitol.” You place a hand over your heart. “It’s all an act, and you need to give it a rest.”

Finnick’s face has dropped. “(Y/n), I mean everything I say.”

“Well, it doesn’t feel like it.” You throw a hand out. “Your lines are rehearsed. How many other girls have you talked to like that and believed it?” 

“I don’t talk to other girls, (Y/n). I’m not interested in them.”

“I don’t believe you.” 

Finnick stares at you for a long moment. “What can I do to prove to you that I do actually want you.”

“You can’t figure that out on your own?” You roll your eyes. “How long have we known each other? Have you ever listened to anything I’ve said?” When he doesn’t speak, you wave your hand. “Just go, Finnick. I’m sick of this, really. I got stuff to do and you’re slowing me down.”

Finnick looks down at the dirt, making a face. “All right.”

You watch as he walks off in the direction of Victor’s Village, looking like a kicked puppy. As soon as he hangs his head, you close your eyes, tilting your head back to take in the sun. You have half the mind to call him back and apologize, but you are running behind.

You turn to continue down the street, heading for the next house. You really hope he doesn’t give up entirely because of what you’ve said, you just want him to listen to what you’re telling him. 

It’s not like you don’t enjoy his company, because you do. He’s your favorite person to hang out with when he’s not being uptight. You think that if he were to ask you to be his girlfriend properly, you’d say yes, but you want it to be real. This doesn’t feel real, with the expensive jewelry, the money, the constant presents. It’s insane. 

You try to be quick to get done within the next hour, paying several people back for their kindness. You barely make it in time to the docks before they shut down for the rest of the day. While the Peacekeepers trust your handiwork, their Head Peacekeeper likes to inspect the hooks to ensure they’re good quality.

You’ve never had a hook sent back.

You tuck the money from the Peacekeepers into your bag, taking your time heading home. You’re sure mom has lunch ready, and most of her part of the work creating the hook has to be done by now. You’ll just need to attach the new lures and sharpen the barb.

When you make it home, it’s late afternoon. The front door and the screen have been opened to their max capacity to allow fresh air to enter the house. You pass right through the doorway, thinking nothing of it, until you come to a stop in your kitchen.

Finnick is leaning against your countertop, inspecting a hook you made last night. “Have you two ever considered opening up a shop closer to the dock? That way you don’t have to walk as far.”

“We have, but it’s expensive next to the dock. We know we’d probably make the money we need, but we can’t know for sure.”

“Have you considered a pop-up?” 

“A stand?” Your mom asks, considering it for a moment. “No, but I’m sure if we tried, the Peacekeepers would deny the permit, like they’ve denied everything else we’ve requested.”

“I’m home.” You tell them, mood fading. “I thought you went home, Finnick.”

“I did, but then I came here to wait for you.” Finnick says. “You should go and put on something more loose and comfortable.”

“For what?” You ask, setting your tote bag down by the door.

“Don’t worry about the details.” Finnick smiles. “I’ve got it all planned out.”

“I don’t have the time. I’ve got hooks to do.” You shake your head.

“Oh, leave them.” Your mom says, winking at you. “I’ll take care of it. The stove has been burning hotter lately because of the heat, I was able to get most of my work done. I’ll get you started.”

“I can’t have you do all the work.” You reason.

“(Y/n), you need a break.” She tilts her head down at you. “Go get changed. You can enjoy a proper day off for once.”

“Mom.” 

“Now, (Y/n).” She tells you.

You look at Finnick, a little upset by the fact that he’s ruined your plans for the rest of the day, but you know better than to argue any further with your mom. You pass them to go to the back of the house, where your small bedroom is. You swing the door shut with a single push, sitting down on your bed as you stare into the closet.

He said something more loose and comfortable—but you’re already wearing that. A regular shirt, a baggy pair of pants that once belonged to your father. You wish he’d given you more details.

You stand back up, mindlessly swiping through your tops before you stumble upon a tank top with thin straps that you haven’t worn in a while. You pull it off the hanger, throwing it over your arm as you turn to the small pile of jeans and shorts that line the wall. You crouch down, picking through them, finding a nice pair of light blue shorts that’ll reach your mid-thigh. 

You change quickly, throwing your previous clothes into the hamper, retying your shoes. When you join your mom and Finnick back in the kitchen, they both seem pleased with your choices.

“I’ll see you later this evening, honey.” Your mom tells you, touching your shoulder. “Finnick will take good care of you.”

You look at Finnick, who has a brighter smile on his face. He hands you your tote bag, which is no longer empty, like it had been when you dropped it off by the door. Now, there’s a neatly folded thin blanket inside. 

“Where are we going?” You ask Finnick, weirded out.

“Nowhere you haven’t been before.” He tells you, motioning for you to leave first. “Thank you, Ms. (L/n).”

“No problem, Finnick.” She waves.

The walk with Finnick is mostly quiet, not a lot of conversation is exchanged. You feel the need to apologize for what you said to him earlier, but you were just expressing how you felt, again. If he would just listen to you, then there wouldn’t be a need to be so straight-forward.

He brings you to the beach, under one of the few palm trees, where he lays out the blanket from the tote bag. Which reveals a couple of snack boxes underneath, containing fruit, crackers, spreads and juices. You stare at Finnick, wanting to tell him you’re not interested in experiencing the Capitol, when he completely takes you off-guard.

“Welcome to our first date.” Finnick laughs, “Sit, please.”

“A date?” You ask, pulling off your shoes to sit on the blanket. “Usually you have to ask the girl out first.”

“I would’ve, but you were already mad at me. That’s why I asked your mom for help.” He smiles. “Sorry, by the way, but I couldn’t let you be after what you said.”

You can’t help it, now. “I’m sorry, Finnick, I just—”

“You don’t have to apologize, I get it. Your mom explained it pretty well, actually.” He sits beside you, popping open the lids on the boxes. “I know where you’re coming from, and I know most of it is because of a rumor.” 

You nod, agreeing. 

“It started in the Capitol.” He tells you, shaking his head. “And as much as I hate it, I can’t escape what they say about me, so I’ve stopped trying. But I want you to know that I don’t talk to any other girls. You are the only one I talk to, because you’re the only one that’s stuck by me after my Games.”

“I’m your friend, Finnick.”

“Not everyone saw me that way.” He says. “They either stuck around because I was rich or left because I was a Capitol darling—a status I can’t help. They labeled me that way.”

“Oh.” You murmur.

He pauses for a moment, looking out at the water. “There’s a lot that happens in the Capitol when I go every year, and it’s partly why I act the way I do, and I’m trying to work on it.” He then looks back at you, taking your hand. “But I’m serious when it comes to my feelings about you, (Y/n). I really do like you, and I would like you to be my girlfriend.”

You stare at him, heart pumping in your chest, “I would love to, Finnick.”

He gives you a smile, “I thought you’d say-so.”

[yrluvjane]

hi gorgeous i hope ur having a great day <3

i come bearing a request hehe

so james and fem reader are best friends and she loves him and doesn’t know what to do with it cause obviously she thinks he doesn’t like her back even tho anyone with eyes can see he’s lovestruck for her, and one day she’s talking with remus about how much she just wants james and how she cant risk telling him and stuff and JAMES overhears this conversation and is literally SPEECHLESS and cue the confessions and fluff

Thanks love!!

The fire in the Gryffindor common room had burned low, casting long shadows across the stone walls. You sat curled in the window seat, your knees drawn to your chest, watching the first snow of winter dust the Forbidden Forest in quiet white. Behind you, the portrait hole creaked open, but you didn’t turn—not until you heard the familiar, hesitant clearing of a throat.

"Mind if I join you?"

Remus’s voice was soft, careful. You nodded, scooting over to make room as he settled beside you, his long legs folding beneath him. For a moment, there was only the crackle of the dying fire and the distant howl of the wind outside.

Then—

"You’re in love with him."

It wasn’t a question.

Your breath hitched, fingers tightening around the edge of your robe. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Remus sighed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "How long?"

"Years," you whispered. The admission felt like pulling a splinter from deep under your skin—painful, but freeing. "Since third year, maybe. I don’t even know when it started. It just... was."

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. Remus studied you, his amber eyes too knowing, too kind. "You’ve never told him."

You laughed, but it came out hollow. "What would be the point? James Potter doesn’t see me that way. He can’t."

"Because of Lily?"

"Because of everything," you said, voice breaking. "He’s James. He’s brilliant and brave and—and golden, Remus. And I’m just... me."

Remus opened his mouth, then closed it again, his brow furrowing. For the first time, he looked almost frustrated. "You really don’t see it, do you?"

"See what?"

"The way he looks at you."

You froze.

"The way he always saves you the seat beside him in the Great Hall," Remus continued quietly. "How he remembers your favorite flavor of every sweet at Honeydukes. How he hexed Mulciber last year for daring to smirk at you in the corridors." He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Merlin, the poems, darling. The rose petals. The way he—"

A choked noise from the staircase cut him off.

Your blood turned to ice.

There, halfway down the steps, stood James.

His face was pale beneath his tan, his glasses slightly askew, as if he’d stumbled to a halt mid-step. His knuckles were white where they gripped the banister, his chest rising and falling too fast.

He’d heard.

Oh Godric, he’d heard everything.

For one endless, suffocating second, no one moved.

Then—

Remus stood, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "I’ll just... give you two a moment."

You wanted to beg him to stay. To fix this. But before you could speak, he was gone, the portrait hole swinging shut behind him with a finality that made your stomach drop.

Silence.

James didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Then, all at once, he was there—kneeling in front of you, his hands hovering just above yours, trembling.

James breathed, and your name on his lips sounded like a prayer.

You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to see the pity in his eyes. "James, I—"

His fingers brushed your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

What you saw there stole the breath from your lungs.

There was no pity. No discomfort.

Just wonder.

"All this time," he whispered, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone, "I thought I was the only one hiding."

Your heart stuttered. "What?"

James let out a shaky laugh, his other hand coming up to cradle your face. "I’ve been in love with you since third year. Since you hexed Snape into next week for insulting Remus. Since you laughed at my stupid jokes like they were actually funny." His voice cracked. "Since forever."

The world tilted.

"You—" You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. "But the rose petals—the poems—I thought—"

"I was trying to tell you," he admitted, cheeks flushing. "But every time I got close, I—" He huffed, frustrated. "I panicked. Because what if I ruined everything? What if you didn’t—"

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t planned. But the second your lips met his, something inside you clicked into place, like the last piece of a puzzle finally finding its home.

James made a noise against your mouth—half-surprise, half-relief—before his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you at all.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"So," he murmured, grinning that stupid, beautiful grin, "does this mean I can finally take you on a proper date?"

You laughed, tangling your fingers in his hair. "Only if you promise to keep the rose petals."

James kissed you again, slow and sweet and perfect.

And outside the castle, the snow kept falling, covering the world in quiet, gentle white.

[purinbunnii]

Swipe Right – Part 16

The alley felt smaller now, the tension thick enough to suffocate. Your husband stood just feet away, still radiating that self-righteous arrogance, but there was something else now—something uncertain.

Because Gojo was here.

And Gojo didn’t play by anyone’s rules but his own.

Your husband’s gaze flickered between you and the man now standing protectively at your side, his lips pressing into a thin line. “This is who you ran to?”

Gojo let out a slow, amused hum, tilting his head. “Didn’t run to me, sweetheart. She chose me.”

Your husband’s jaw ticked, his fingers curling into fists. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Gojo chuckled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Oh, but it does.” He shifted slightly, angling himself between you and your husband, a movement so casual yet undeniably deliberate. “See, I have a real problem with men who corner women in alleys just to make themselves feel big.” His smirk was lazy, but his voice? Deadly. “Makes me wanna remind them what small really feels like.”

Your husband inhaled sharply, schooling his expression back into one of detached calm. “She is my wife. I have every right to talk to her.”

Gojo let out a mock gasp, widening his eyes. “Oh wow, wife, huh? That’s crazy, ‘cause last I checked, you’ve been playing house with your little assistant for a while now.” His smirk sharpened. “But hey, maybe she calls you ‘sir’ too, so it gets confusing.”

Your husband’s eyes darkened. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Gojo tsked, tapping his chin. “I know enough.” Then he turned to you, expression shifting in an instant. “Do you want to keep talking to him?”

Your breath caught.

Gojo wasn’t answering for you. Wasn’t stepping in like some reckless, overprotective savior.

He was giving you the choice.

Your husband scoffed. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you actually love this guy.”

Gojo’s body tensed, just slightly.

And suddenly, you were angry.

Not just at your husband, not just at his condescending tone—but at the sheer audacity of his words.

Because love?

Love was years of cold shoulders, of coming second to business meetings, of begging for affection and getting scraps in return.

Love was what had died in your marriage long before you ever stepped into Gojo’s arms.

And yet, standing here, in this alley, in the middle of this disaster of a confrontation, there was something undeniable in the way Gojo stood beside you, unwavering.

Your husband was losing control. And he knew it.

So you smiled—slow, deliberate, cruel.

“Maybe I do.”

Your husband’s eyes widened. “What?”

You took a single step closer to Gojo, feeling the heat of his body, feeling the way his energy shifted instantly—like he was pulling you into him without a single touch.

Then you turned back to your husband, tilting your head. “Maybe I do love him.”

The words shouldn’t have come so easily.

But they did.

Because maybe you did.

Gojo let out a low, pleased hum beside you. “See? She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Your husband stared at you, something unreadable in his expression—shock, disbelief, maybe even something close to hurt.

But it didn’t matter anymore.

Because this was the moment he realized he’d already lost you.

And Gojo?

He had won.

[aardvaark]

leverage rewatch: s1e2 "the homecoming job"

ah yes, the title i always get mixed up with "the reunion job". my brain goes "homecoming" -> some american high school thingy -> probably that episode at a high school right? but no, this is the very pro-military episode that every american tv show seemingly has to do at least once lol smh

i love sophie’s audition scene. weirdly i actually guessed that it would be for some kind of cleaning commercial when i was first watching (she’s dramatically saying "i want to be cleannnn!" but i was thinking "hm, yes, ‘clean’, i bet this is a joke about an overly dramatic reading of a cleaning product ad". and then they revealed it was about soap). which probably speaks to the weird way my brain works, but fortunately my brain is apparently in sync with how leverage works lol. p.s. is the fact it’s a "soap ad" and she’s acting melodramatic a joke about soap opera style acting?

also re: her terrible audition scene, leverage creator john rogers has a cameo as the casting guy.

and third thing about that scene (wow i’m 3 mins in and already off track) i do love watching comedic sophie scenes. like her delivery of "peggy killed her first husband" (peggy being the character in the ad about soap) lmaoooo. this scene reminds me of gina bellman’s character in another show, "coupling" - personally wasn’t a show i enjoyed, but i could appreciate how funny she was.

the guy eliot punched in the throat still falling to the ground while he answers the phone lol.

the idea that parker a) doesn’t have her phone on silent/turned off/away from her during a heist and b) that she would answer the phone during a heist even when a security guard is around, is very funny to me. and she still gets away evidently, so apparently that’s also a completely valid choice for her to make.

sophie saying "don’t you trust us?" to eliot & laughing about it lol. next season she’ll be a bit genuinely offended that eliot doesn’t fully trust her, but she doesn’t know it yet.

hardison’s old nate painting!!!!! iconic. and hardison really is gifted.

"short version or long version?" "short" "short" "shortest" pshhhh poor hardison

first time eliot says "it’s a very distinctive…"

first time hardison gets pushed off a roof (actually, sophie is the first to get pushed off something against her will by parker, which happens in the pilot episode)

i like how sophie’s voice changes a little, even when her grift alias is also british, even when she doesn’t really *need* to do a different voice. there’s still very much a baseline Sophie Voice and then many other voices for each ‘character’ she does. which gives the impression that the Sophie Voice is also just another fake accent (& technically that’s true according to john rogers - in the beantown bailout job, when sophie’s fighting the guys who attack nate in his apartment, her accent changes a bit and apparently that’s supposed to be a hint at her real voice).

when nate’s acting up and eliot says they’ll just finish this job and split up again, they all agree but look so disappointed and sad :( only known each other for a couple of jobs so far but none of them really want it to be over.

it’s adorable that hardison & nate watch parker’s theft. with popcorn, might i add. nate specifically walks over to watch and asks if she’s started yet. it’s sweet that he seems to find parker’s work sincerely impressive, i guess he’s spent years tracking her down and it makes sense that he’d see all the skill that goes into making the theft of something so major (literally stealing a law!) look so effortless.

parker being able to sense that money is real vs counterfeit lmao.

eliot, smiling sarcastically: "hey, what do you got going on? you and hardison? what is it, like a creepy contest??" lol. and hardison looking annoyed vs parker still smiling (she’s having the best day ever bc she found so so much cash)

parker’s "i bought a plant" (bc hardison suggested it earlier) is soooooo adorable i love that moment so much <333 she doesn’t seem to quite know how to say it, she just blurts it out, but he gets it. he’s always understood. agh my heart!!

nate buying a t*sla lol - godddd it meant something very different back then

them all being surprised at the car for 0.0001 seconds before agreeing it’s a midlife crisis and making fun of nate again. love this family.

[piltivorcango2hell]

The plate of food was now beside her and Linus was resting his head on her lap acting as an anchor to reality. Ina’s confidence sunk when Viktor said she was “unwell.” She knew she had problems, that was why she had Linus, but when others said it, she felt judged. When he then brought up what happened the previous night, she felt ashamed and broken.

I’m sorry.

She slowly grabs the shimmer and looks at it with dread.

I am “unwell” and it’s just been getting worse. I’m sorry if I scared you. I didn’t mean to… at least not like that. It’s not working as well anymore and I hate it when doc gives me a new one.

Linus moves to rest his upper body on Ina and looks up at Viktor expectingly and then back at Ina and lets out a small whine.

I know I have to take it or my fucking head falls apart and then the rest of my fucking body with it. But it always fucking sucks really bad the first time so when Silco sent it over the new one for me I just know this one is going to be hell so I didn’t take it. All because I’m scared and don’t want to have to go through it again and yeah doc I know my anxiety is made worse when I don’t take care of myself but it’s kinda hard to when my kid gets sick and topside refuses to treat her so then you use all of what little money you have to buy shitty meds in Zaun because guess what? The fucking government who doesn’t give a shit about us decided that no we are to dangerous to be provided basic medicine.

At some point she leans forward and wraps her arms around her dog, still clutching the new vial of shimmer.

And I know you don’t agree with what I do but what choice do I have? They are shooting at kids and now boss won’t let me go back till you agree to what ever the hell he wanted from you. And now I’ve said too much. Oh fucking hell I’m gonna get in so much fucking trouble… Silco is gonna kill me.

Ina looks at the vial and then to Viktor.

I just don’t want her to become like me… I don’t want anyone to.

https://www.tumblr.com/askviktor/778530854638059520/viktor-softly-places-the-cool-towel-on-inas?source=share

When Ina woke up it took her a moment to remember where she was and notice that her dog was asleep on the sofa above her, softly snoring. The memories of the previous night came flooding back to her and a sead of frustration and anger directed towards herself, planted itself in her mind. 

She sat up, looked at the empty vial still on the coffee table, and then started to look for a piece of paper and something to write with. When she found them, she scribbled out a quick note to Silco with a shaking hand asking him for Shimmer. She called Linus over, secured the note to his collar, and hoped Viktor forgot to lock the balcony door. 

Go to Silco.

She watched as her dog opened the door, and ran off back to Zaun. Ina stood up and weakly made her way over to a nearby stack of books. When she reached them, she sat down out of breath with one of her legs sticking out to the side of her, and started looking for anything that resembled a school textbook as she thought about what to do next and mentally scolded herself for what she had done.

[valeovalairs]

My moms making me go ask for a job in person wish me luck

[braisedhoney]

some tragic love stories be like: if i could bottle the galaxy, i would pour it into a cup so it would be easier for you to drink. do you want them? do you want the stars? or do they suit you better as adornments for your eyes than glitter on your lips?

but they don’t want the stars. they don’t want the galaxy. but how can they not? is that not enough? (it’s too much, that’s the problem. it’s too much.)

[micamicster]

Wildly apprehensive about the furiosa movie

[mars-ipan]

i do love my family very dearly but the internalized ableism the men in here struggle with is. so much

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

Masquerade

historical fiction set in 15th century West Africa

follows a young woman from Timbuktu, recently conquered by the the warrior king of Yorùbáland

her guild of blacksmiths were already shunned as witches, and their conditions worsen under Yorùbá rule - so when she’s kidnapped by the king to be his wife, she decides to accept that it’ll be a better life for her, as long as she can get her mother’s blessing

but as months go by without her mother being found, and political tensions rise, she must decide what she wants

[lesbiansanemi]

I don’t often think I’m upset at not having a good relationship with my parents but sometimes it really fucking hits me that I don’t have a good mom I don’t have a dad I’ll never experience having a good parent and someone I can lean on like that and I get… really upset

[tastymelonfarm]

if I think about katniss and peeta too long my vision starts to look like when you take damage in a cod game

[psychoticfemmm]

Prove It

Pairing: rafe cameron x pogue!reader

Summary: Some Kook girl spreads a rumor that she hooked up with Rafe—just to piss you off. When you confront him, it turns into an argument where you start to doubt him. But Rafe? He refuses to let you walk away.

You weren’t even looking for drama tonight.

You just wanted a chill night at the party—have a drink, dance a little, maybe even get Rafe to actually behave himself for once. But no. Instead, you had to hear some random girl tell everyone that she hooked up with your boyfriend.

At first, you laughed it off.

Because really? Rafe Cameron? Cheating on you? Not a chance.

But then you saw her—smirking, flicking her eyes in your direction, looking entirely too pleased with herself. And suddenly, you weren’t so sure.

So now here you were, arms crossed, standing in front of Rafe, daring him to explain.

“She’s saying you hooked up,” you snapped, voice sharper than intended. “Are you gonna deny it, or just stand there looking like an asshole?”

Rafe, leaning against the counter with his beer, just sighed—like this was a mild inconvenience rather than a full-on crisis.

“Babe, really?” He raised a brow. “You actually believe her?”

You hesitated.

And that hesitation? Oh, Rafe did not like that.

His jaw ticked, and suddenly, he was pushing off the counter, closing the space between you in two slow steps.

“Let me get this straight,” he murmured, towering over you now. “You think I’d let some desperate, pathetic Kook girl anywhere near me—when I have you?”

You hated that he said it like that—like it was the most ridiculous accusation ever. Like you should’ve just known better.

You huffed, looking away. “I don’t know, Rafe. You weren’t exactly shutting her down.”

His fingers tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

“I don’t even know her name,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “You really think I’d fuck around on you? You think I’d risk losing you for some nobody?”

Your stomach flipped at how serious he looked—blue eyes dark, lips pressed into a firm line.

You swallowed. “…I don’t know.”

That was the wrong answer.

Rafe’s gaze hardened. “Bullshit.” He stepped closer, voice dropping lower. “You know damn well, no matter how mad you get at me, we’re always gonna work it out.”

You blinked up at him, heart hammering. “Rafe—”

“No, listen to me.” His voice was firm now, like he was making a point you weren’t allowed to argue. “You don’t get to walk away over this. Not from me.”

You sucked in a breath, nails digging into your palms. “You act like I don’t have a choice.”

Rafe grinned. “You don’t.”

His fingers curled around your jaw, holding you in place. “Because I love you. And I don’t give a shit how upset you are, you’re still mine.”

Your breath hitched. Your body was betraying you, leaning into him even as your brain told you to stay mad.

Rafe’s smirk turned smug. He could feel you giving in.

“You wanna be mad at me?” His fingers traced your jaw, down to your neck. “Fine. But don’t ever doubt that I’m yours.”

Then, just to make his point, he turned his head slightly—locking eyes with that girl across the room. The one who started all this.

And then?

He kissed you.

Hard.

His hand gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t a single inch of space between you. His other hand slid into your hair, tilting your head back, deepening the kiss.

He made a point to make it slow. Intense. Unapologetic.

By the time he pulled back, you were breathless, fingers curled into his shirt.

Rafe leaned in, lips brushing against your ear, voice low and smug.

“Nice try, though.”

Across the room, the girl’s expression was pure embarrassment.

And Rafe? Rafe just grinned—like he had just won the best game he’d ever played.

You sighed. “You’re such an asshole.”

Rafe just laughed, squeezing your hip. “Yeah, but I’m your asshole.”

And honestly?

Yeah, he was.

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅

hope you liked it <3